blanket
by fightfortherightsofhouseelves
Summary: Harry, Ginny, and a cosy, knitted blanket in December.


It's December 20, Harry realises, then tugs the collar of his winter coat higher and shivers. There's a rush of people, joyous humans happily chattering as they flood the sidewalk, presents filling their bags and pockets considerably lighter. Harry smiles.

He rounds the corner, he's nearly home. The flat - their flat - is at a heavenly ten minute walk from the Ministry, and Harry still cannot believe their luck in finding it. Granted, it had no furniture a week ago, when they moved in, and it's still pretty spartan if one doesn't count an improvised pallet bed in the bedroom, a fridge and two chairs in the kitchen as furniture.

A wisp of cinnamon, wine and something chocolate-y floats towards Harry as he opens the building door. "Happy hour at the cafe next door," his mind registers between two left turns of the key.

Left shoe presses on the heel of the right one and Harry's socked feet pad their way to the bedroom, his entire body plus brain ready for an evening nap. The place is empty save for two meters of pallets with a bloody incredible mattress on top (worth all their money, they say, but maybe because it actually did cost them all of their money). Their poor overworked backs deserve some pampering, after all, even if it means sleeping on a pallet bed for a couple of months. Which Ginny thoroughly enjoys, to be honest. She's decorated the room with fairy lights, neatly stitching them to the inside of the pallets so the whole bed lights up brilliantly when they're on.

His clothes left behind in a pile to be taken care of later, Harry crawls underneath the fluffy warm blanket spread on their bed, the sole of his right foot touching the small tower of gifts on the floor before disappearing with the rest of his body. Funny thing bout the gifts is that neither of them wants to be the first to give in and sneak a peek inside before Christmas Eve, but they're both trying to make the other concede (and admit he's a weak, sad loser, according to Ginny). They're quite the competitive couple, Harry and Ginny, playing to win yet always enjoying the wild ride they take together.

Harry places his glasses next to his nest of jet black hair, runs a hand through his beard, scratching at that perpetually itchy spot in the middle, and slowly closes his eyelids. The last thing he sees is the frost glazing the windows, soft flowers growing in the midst of winter. It's nearly Christmas and he's the happiest he's been.

A yawn and a pair of green eyes open a while later, as he wraps the blanket tighter round himself, then grins. On the other side of the bed, Harry takes in a sheath of red hair ablaze in the gentle hue of the fairy lights, and a freckled face hidden between the covers of a book.

Sneakily, his fingers travel all the way to her, then underneath her hand-knit sweater, to rest an open palm against her tummy and tickle there lightly.

Ginny giggles, "Thought you'd never wake up."

"Not getting rid of me so easily," he laughs, his voice groggy with sleep, and draws his stubbled cheek closer to her stomach.

"Wouldn't dream of it, my love," Ginny winks, inserts the bookmark where her attention's trailed off, then places the book on top of a carefully wrapped Christmas gift. In all fairness, piling those presents right next to her side of the bed was a genius move from Harry, but Ginny Weasley does not lose at games. When she signs up, she signs up to go home with the proverbial cup.

"How was training?" Harry's lips stretch into a lopsided smile, his hands tenderly removing the ginger strands of hair tickling his cheeks. He can't quite see without his glasses, but he rather feels her smile and the look she's giving him.

"Ghastly, but here I am, still alive," she chuckles, her body pressing into his side as she sits prompted on an elbow; the hard skin of his palms caressing her temple, long, deft fingers tangled into her hair.

"Sounds like someone's in need of a hug," Harry teases, slightly lifting his head to brush her lips with his. Same chocolate-y scent as earlier, meaning that Ginny visited the small corner coffee shop she's taken a liking to since the day they visited the premises, scouting for a new house to call home.

"That, Mr. Potter, is an understatement." She kisses him back, but harder, tenderly biting into his lower lip before she ends it.

An ebony eyebrow lifts, "Mr. Potter, is it? I gather you've immersed yourself into the world of Mr. Darcy once more?" Harry asks, rather amused. He'd offered Ginny a box of muggle books as a house warming present, but never expected to have such great success. Cosily wrapped up in the fluffy knit blanket, she'd read kilometers worth of letters and words by the orange-gold glimmer of the fairy lights before falling asleep. And it made Harry's heart swell every single time he watched her, so full of love it might combust.

"Can't help it, Mr. Darcy's a very sexy man."

"Is he now?"

"A-ha. Such a hot piece of 19th century arse."

Harry knows she's teasing, she's always been a tease, but the monster inside his chest growls and roars, and his hands tangle into her hair to bring her mouth to his. He kisses her deeply, tastes mingling inside their mouths, lips white with pressure, tongue sliding on tongue. He keeps a steady rhythm, red hair tugged by calloused fists until it's too much and her hands roam over his shirt, lift it up and rest on his bare chest.

"What about this hot piece of 20th century arse, huh?" Harry asks, ragged breath and heartbeat out of control, but at least he reckons he's proved his point.

"Dunno, I might just be into older men," she taunts, catching her breath and Harry pouts.

Ginny decides she's teased him enough. "Let me tell you how hot your tight little bum actually is," she whispers against his lips, nails lightly scratching at his chest.

"Yeah? How?" He's trying not to sound too excited, but by this point they both know he is. So much so that Ginny gives him that look and shimmies down, further inside the blanket, and mouths a "Watch me" before disappearing along with his pants.

Harry's eyes shut with that first hot breath of air blown over him, aroused and pulsing as her lips tenderly touch the tip, open, taste, and take him in. His mind explodes over and over, with every suck and lick and bob of her ginger head, colours exploding at the back of his eyelids.

"Ginny," her name rolls off his tongue as her hands sneak underneath him and squeeze, her nails pressing hard into his skin.

She raises her head for a second, "Didn't I tell you? Hot," then lowers it again, her mouth working up and down, teeth nipping at the tip the way she learned he liked that summer after the war was over.

Harry's left hand fists the sheets, his right one touches the crown of her hair, gently tugging there. It's a sign she's learned to mean he needed her, desperately so. A last twist of her tongue, a squeeze of her hand, and it's done. He's done, over the peak, his vision black and chest heaving. A sweet, blissful oblivion, every time he's with her, every time she pushes him over the limit. She makes him so insatiable.

He's still dizzy with ecstasy and pleasure when she calls him, "Harry?"

"Hmm?"

"Alright, Harry?"

"Mhm."

"Good. Because I'd like you to take my clothes off."

It's like she's poured ice cold water over his head. His eyes flutter open fast, his whole being catapulted back on Earth in record time.

Harry grabs her wrist and tugs her over him, tugs at her clothes and rids her of them in a heartbeat, his lips glued to the skin of her neck, her shoulders, her center rubbing hard against him.

He rolls them quickly. On her tummy, Ginny gives him a look over her shoulder, inviting, taunting. The tips of his index fingers twist around the sides of her panties and he lowers them, his eyes traveling over her naked body. He's always loved her back, the arch of it, the oval of her shoulders, the two small valleys dug into her lower back, just above her bum. Even without his glasses, he knows how every portion of her body looks like, from every freckle to her last scar.

A trail of kisses tattooed on her skin before he climbs back up to lean down over her, his body warm against her back. Harry gathers the mane of red hair gently into one fist, twists his wrist around it - he likes to be able to see the muscles of her back flex, tense, and relax, watch them throb as she responds to him. He kisses between the Trapezius and Rhomboids, the tip of his tongue following down the elegant arch of her spine, as one hand moves between her stomach and the mattress to lift her slightly. Pushing forward, he groans once he's inside, warmth and a feeling of euphoria hitting him in violent waves.

Ginny gasps as Harry slides forwards and back again, fist wrapping tighter in her hair, the bridge of his palm running circles round one nipple as his lips trace and retrace a patch of freckled constellations from her shoulders to her nape. His hot breath right there's always done things to her, so she curses and asks him to go faster, deeper.

A slap on her buttcheek and she moans loudly - yet another lesson learned that fateful summer before she returned to Hogwarts. He repeats the action, never hitting to hurt, but to please. He repeats it thrice more, going faster each time until his thrusts morph into pounds, the grip on her hair hardens, and the room is filled with gasps and moans and that distinct sound of skin slapping against skin.

When Ginny arches her back, then raises her arse higher to adjust the angle, Harry understands he's there. From deep within his chest there's a hoarse, hursh moan crawling its way up, rolling past his vocal cords to erupt. Once again, it's over and he buckles over, hugging her closer to him as his brains turn to mush.

Harry doesn't know what happened in between that blissful moment and the very next. He simply felt: happy, in love, over the moon. He holds her in his arms as they recover, blanket over them to keep the warmth. Like children playing fort, they're covered from their heads to their toes, cuddled into each other with matching smiles and blushing cheeks.

Her temple presses against his chest, his fingers trace her cheek, the shape of her ear, trail back to her lips, to the bridge of her nose.

"I love you, Harry. I love how safe you make me feel, like there's nothing that could ever disturb the peace of this small house, of our home."

Ginny's voice is nearly a whisper as she tells him about all the things she loves about him, of the life awaiting them. With each word, his heart beats faster, thumping to a tune Ginny's heard before, one reserved only for her.

Harry hugs her tightly to his chest, one leg wrapping round her middle as he listens, blanket wrapped cosily around their bodies like a shield between their love and the world outside. The night was theirs, and they were happy, twenty, and forever in love with each other.


End file.
